Amory grinned.

"All from the Twin Cities." He named them off. "There's Marylyn De Witt--
she's pretty, got a car of her own and that's damn convenient; there's
Sally Weatherby--she's getting too fat; there's Myra St. Claire, she's an
old flame, easy to kiss if you like it--"

"What line do you throw 'em?" demanded Kerry. "I've tried everything,
and the mad wags aren't even afraid of me."

"You're the 'nice boy' type," suggested Amory.

"That's just it. Mother always feels the girl is safe if she's with me.
Honestly, it's annoying. If I start to hold somebody's hand, they laugh
at me, and let me, just as if it wasn't part of them. As soon as I get
hold of a hand they sort of disconnect it from the rest of them."

"Sulk," suggested Amory. "Tell 'em you're wild and have 'em reform you--
go home furious--come back in half an hour--startle 'em."

Kerry shook his head.

"No chance. I wrote a St. Timothy girl a really loving letter last year.
In one place I got rattled and said: 'My God, how I love you!' She took
a nail scissors, clipped out the 'My God' and showed the rest of the
letter all over school. Doesn't work at all. I'm just 'good old Kerry'
and all that rot."

Amory smiled and tried to picture himself as "good old Amory." He failed
completely.